


The Game Goes on and The Aftereffects Affair

by Cynara



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Dubious Ethics, M/M, THRUSH Gas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:57:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cynara/pseuds/Cynara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not every affair lets agents return to the field another day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Game Goes On Affair

He'd quickly realized he couldn't take Illya back to HQ in this condition. He was slower to grasp the trouble it posed until an antidote was found. He'd just said that it was time for bed, and then Illya was stripping and getting into Napoleon's bed on the guest side.

It was taking too long. They, Mr. Waverly and himself, had figured out ways for Illya to work safely in the labs. Outside of the chrome and gunmetal halls, Napoleon had to maintain constant vigilance. His self-control was fraying, sped by enforced celibacy and tempting proximity. Illya was a barnacle.

Still no antidote. They'd had a breakthrough using hypnosis by which they could provide Illya with resistance to other people's orders. Napoleon went on a date, leaving Illya with one of the translators chosen carefully.

It was a bust. She was nice, but all he could think of was Illya. Illya had been prepared by hypnosis to resist the translator, should it be necessary. Napoleon hurried back home after a nightcap, his date clearly disappointed.

He saw the translator out and locked the door. He should've hypnotized Illya to resist him. Napoleon could do it now. He wasn't going to.

"Time for bed." Napoleon pulled on pajamas. He should give dating another try. Give cold showers another try. Give the researchers more time. He should.

They got into bed.

"Turn off the light." Napoleon draped an arm over Illya when he lay down. Crossed the lines he'd drawn between them.

He stroked Illya's chest, slipped his fingers between the buttons, fondled Illya's left nipple. Napoleon nuzzled Illya's neck, pressed against his thighs. He'd never said anything. He'd thought, not that there was always time. He'd thought if he ignored his attraction long enough, it would become moot. So it had.

Tears welled up in Napoleon's eyes, but he didn't stop. He kissed Illya's jaw while he kept humping his partner's leg. Former partner. If, he could no longer only consider when, if they found an antidote, Illya would kill him and his body would never be found. He kept going.

He unbuttoned Illya's pajama top pulling it open running his hands up and down Illya's chest. He rolled both nipples with his thumbs and licked Illya's right ear. Illya made the most luscious sounds. Napoleon couldn't stop. He was so close. He rocked against Illya, slid his hand down. Squeezed.

He came. They came. Napoleon inside his pajamas against Illya's leg, Illya over Napoleon's fist. Napoleon's tears fell. He leaned into flannel, ashamed and obsessed. Illya trusted him. He had failed him, had failed himself. He tried to pull away, rise, clean himself. He'd never be clean, like Lady MacBeth.

Illya rolled over and pinned him, snuffling almost snores against Napoleon's chest, pressing his leg against Napoleon's damp crotch.

Napoleon pulled his hand from Illya's pajama bottoms, wiping it off on the spattered cloth. He cupped Illya's left buttock and kissed him on the top of his head. "Love you."

In the morning Napoleon slipped free, showered, dressed and waited until he was in the kitchen to tell Illya to get up and shower. He couldn't face Illya, not yet. He poured cold cereal into bowls while he waited for Illya to dress. White shirt, black suit, no Walther bulge.

Napoleon poured the milk and dug his spoon into his bowl. Illya could still kill with his bare hands. What were they going to do? He watched Illya eat, no expression of rebuke in his features. He wouldn't. That was the problem, Illya would acquiesce to anything. "Time to go."

They went to work. They came home, ate, Illya read and Napoleon festered. Finally, Napoleon changed for bed and turned in. Illya inserted a bookmark and closed the tome, went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, stripped and crawled into bed. Napoleon again caressed Illya, rubbed against his once partner.

It became their routine. Work, home, sex, sleep. Napoleon had Illya in hand when he considered this. He ducked under the blankets and took Illya into his mouth, just the head at first, tonguing the slit. He slid down further, back, took more and by stages arrived at the root.

Napoleon swallowed around Illya in his throat. He pulled back until only his mouth was full. After exploring those possibilities, he pressed forward again.

Illya's hands cupped the back of Napoleon's head. Napoleon pulled out all the stops. Illya flipped off the covers and rubbed Napoleon's cheek with his fingers.

 

Napoleon sucked Illya harder in surprise. Illya's touch was so intimate, catching Napoleon's cheek between Illya's fingers and cock. Napoleon grasped himself while he brought Illya to the brink and flung his partner over. He swallowed everything, holding back his orgasm in the ring of his index finger and thumb.

Only once Illya's throes of completion ceased, when his face was slack with satisfaction, did Napoleon finish himself. Quickly, furtively. Done he slid back up, wrapping himself around Illya. His tears slid down his face. He should have said something. Too late. He knew this was wrong. He couldn't resist. 

He didn't do it every night. Sometimes he just mouthed the head and swallowed, having worked Illya with his hand. Once he focused on Illya's balls, pulled back and took a faceful. Even standing before the bathroom mirror bespattered didn't make him stop.

He was consumate at work. At home--


	2. The Aftereffects Affair

Illya took his opportunity and kissed Napoleon on the mouth. "I'd heard you were a good kisser." He didn't know first hand. Based on Napoleon's fellatio technique, it was better than even odds.

"Illya?" The second kiss wasn't such a surprise, so he did what came naturally.

Illya tilted back after the kissing ended, a smile bending his lips. "Nice to know Research is accurate." He waited for another kiss.

Napoleon moved them to his couch, then he thought better of it and got up to sit in the club chair. He let go of Illya's hand, only to find his was still held. He looked at their hands, then at Illya. Illya released Napoleon's hand.

Time stretched between them.

"Talk?"

It was so unlike Illya that it shook Napoleon from his introspection. There was something, a glint of headstrong Illya in the blue eyes that looked back at him.

"I didn't lose my intelligence, just my ego."

Napoleon pushed his hair back, stood, paced for a moment, then sat back down next to Illya. He looked at Illya for inspiration, then away. He couldn't find words.

Illya lifted his hands to Napoleon's back. He stroked against the tension. "This is about the gas."

Napoleon turned his head to look at Illya. He rested his hand on Illya's neck and pressed his lips against blond bangs.

Illya tipped his head, moving his mouth under Napoleon's. He drifted with the kiss. Napoleon then pulled away. Illya waited.

"I... an apology would be insincere, since I don't want to change my actions." Napoleon was out of practice with confession, with the true baring of the soul. "The thought of turning you over, of someone else taking freedoms with you-- I don't know what to do with myself."

"That hadn't occurred to me."

Napoleon looked at Illya in eager confusion.

"It is about the gas, not incomplete integration of homosexual impulses." Illya licked his bottom lip. "That's inconvenient."

"Incomplete integration?"

"It was a hypothesis. It was one explanation of phenomena. I'm ill-suited to address the actual problem."

"Your suit is fine." Napoleon had packed away all of Illya's less flattering options when he'd moved his partner in. "Explain the hypothesis, about the incomplete integration."

"That you were able to separate yourself from the object of your actions as long as you didn't kiss me." Illya smiled. "The psychological profile became very convoluted once you started sucking me off."

Napoleon considered the implications of Illya's words. "You're still maddening." Napoleon really looked at Illya. "You're flirting with me." He'd never been sure if Illya was flirting or just yanking his chain.

"Am I? Is it working?"

It was some combination of a carnival house of mirrors and a 3-D movie. "Illya, I've--" He couldn't say it. If only that had meant he couldn't do it.

"Guess not." Illya got up and returned to the task he'd been at before Napoleon had presented himself.

It was too much, and Napoleon got up and grabbed Illya pulling him against his chest. He looked down and saw the whisper of a smile. He pushed Illya almost an arm's length away, horrified at his reaction.

"Have you considered professional help?"

Napoleon unhanded Illya and dropped back down. He was going to have to take Illya to Mr. Waverly. He sobbed. Shoulders heaving, inhuman sounds sobbed. When he finished, wrung out, he looked and saw a full water tumbler and three aspirin on the coaster. He took a sip, then scooped up the pills and swallowed them with more water. He replaced the tumbler once drained.

Napoleon got up at the guidance of hands on his shoulder and let himself be escorted to his bedroom. He let himself be stripped and pushed into bed. He wasn't surprised when Illya got in after him, though some part of him thought he should.

"Sleep, Pasha."

Napoleon did.

In the morning, the light seemed wrong. He looked for the alarm clock.

"You're awake." Illya rolled onto his back and scooted back some. "I called in."

Napoleon looked at Illya.

"There is a problem, it's related to the gas. That's also what I told Mr. Waverly." A glimmer of devilment entered his eyes. "I did say you'd explain in more detail later."

"He'll take you away. And he'd be right."

"You'd just come after me. That never worked well for THRUSH. He's much smarter than that." He looked at Napoleon. "What about the gas kept you from kissing me?"

It was a good question. He hadn't been stopped from--, he had--

"You are so stupid."

Napoleon whipped his head around.

"I'm not going to get better. Not in the way you hoped, not at the beginning. My brain has been rewired. I doubt it's on a gross level, but if we had the technology I'm confident a before and an after would be clear even to you.

No matter how cunning you and Mr. Waverly are, you can't hypnotize me into having self-will. If you could, you'd be in the wrong profession. Someone is going to have to be my ego for me. If not you, who?"

"But--"

"Do you really think you've harmed me? You pushed me away when you thought you were rough. Can you think of anyone you'd entrust me to?"

"No."

"Then you'll have to trust yourself." Illya got out of bed.

"Illya." Napoleon swallowed as Illya turned around, nude and confident. It hurt to think that his partner couldn't resist, despite being the most deadly breathing 145 pounds he knew. "I'm not that strong."

"Then I'm doomed." Illya headed for the bathroom.

Napoleon placed his hands over his eyes. It didn't take him long to accept Illya was right. That surety had let him return from the field time after time. He got up and headed to the bathroom.

"Integrating impulses?" Fortunately Napoleon's shower was big enough for two if they were friendly. "Any experience with that?" He was feeling his way, having found that while Illya couldn't directly express desires, he could discuss the past.

"They were never disintegrated. It's difficult to manage them appropriately when they're nebulous."

Did he want to know? Did he want to make Illya tell him? "You don't have problem with sex with a man."

"Sex is complicated. Making love is worth complications."

"You moonlight writing fortunes for cookies."

"Pay is better but the job is boring."

Napoleon laughed and maneuvered them so he could kiss Illya. When they needed to breathe, he shut off the tap. Sex in the shower, like on a beach, was better in fantasy than in life. He toweled them off quickly then led them into the bedroom. He pulled the blankets down.

There was nothing left to say, the forms made meaningless would only be a mockery. Instead he kissed Illya. On the forehead, down his nose, worshiped his mouth. He was very devout to Illya. Suckled Illya's neck, careful not to leave a mark. Mr. Waverly couldn't be given any reason to take Illya from him. He applied himself to Illya's nipples, enthralled at Illya's reactions, his whole body all corded tension like a pulled back bow. Napoleon clutched Illya's hips between his thighs, controlling the amount of play. Their cocks rubbed together deliciously.

Napoleon worked his way down, changing his seat to Illya's legs as he worked past ribs. He detoured around the obvious attraction, tonguing the jut of hipbone, and then the matching jut on the other side. Outer thigh, inner thigh, kneecap, shin.

Napoleon nipped the sole of one foot at the arch, switched feet and worked back up. This time he didn't ignore the proud flesh. He made full use of everything he'd learned about pleasing Illya, and full use of delaying tactics. He pulled his mouth slowly free of Illya's prick, quickly seating their groins together and thrusting his tongue into Illya's mouth.

Despite his intentions, Napoleon came first but was aware Illya followed just behind. Acceptable. Napoleon looked over his handiwork, Illya sprawled in utter sybaritic release. He kissed Illya's face and cleaned them up.

"Can't find my mouth?" Illya was silenced with Napoleon's tongue. He held Napoleon by the nape, teasing out intriguing sounds with his other hand. His stomach rumbled.

Napoleon disentangled and looked down. "Put some clothes on so I can satisfy that."

"Easier without clothes."

"Your stomach." Napoleon got up and threw on his robe. He could do without alimentary organs critiquing his technique. He looked at his watch as he passed his bureau. "I'm surprised it waited this long."

"I had a snack." Illya got up, pulled out a pair of briefs and followed them with pants.

Toasted cheese sandwiches and soup later, Napoleon considered just what he'd tell Mr. Waverly. "Come here." He pulled Illya bare back against his chest. "I wouldn't have survived you, would I?" Napoleon allowed himself to mourn for never having found out.

"Who says you will now?"

Napoleon kissed Illya on the neck and tickled his side. Soon he found himself on his back and Illya straddling him. It appealed. "Make love to me."

Illya knelt up, opened Napoleon's robe pulling his arms from the sleeves, pulled down his own zip and got out of his clothes without leaving the couch. He kissed Napoleon, rocking them together. He thumbed Napoleon's nipples, broke the kiss and tongued the left nipple, then switched to the other side. With one hand he pinched the lonely nipple and with the other he gathered their cocks to better control the friction.

Napoleon fought his orgasm as best he could. He guided lllya's face up and kissed him deep. He arched as Illya switched back and forth between his nipples one handed. He stroked his hands over Illya's skin.

Too soon they spilt, one after the other, tumbling to satisfaction. Napoleon lolled, awake but limp. Illya snuffled lightly. Napoleon kissed the top of Illya's blond head. He felt wonderful. Nothing had changed except everything. He tried nudging Illya so they could get up and into bed. He tried harder.

Napoleon laughed. Belly-splitting laughed and still Illya slept on. The agent that could sleep anywhere and strike like a sunbasked snake was totally zonked. No wonder he was such a grump, it would have offended Illya's pride.

Once he'd calmed down, Napoleon shifted Illya, sat up and stood, carrying his precious sack of potatoes into the bedroom. He unslung Illya and got him into bed, tossed his robe onto the foot of the bed and got in himself.

 

==================================================================

Mr. Waverly looked up as Mr. Solo entered. His top agent had been 'off' ever since Mr. Kuryakin had been affected by that diabolical gas. He'd left them to sort it out, and had been disappointed it was taking so long. Not surprised, just disappointed.

His agent was much more settled this morning. "I trust you've straightened matters out?"

"Oh, yes, Sir."

Mr. Waverly spun the table lightly so the file stopped just under his agent's hand. "Good. I've a matter for you to handle. Several of the parties are known to you, I expect you'll be of good assistance. While you are out we'll host Mr. Kuryakin here at HQ, with all of the necessary protocols."

"Yes, Sir."

Mr. Waverly watched the younger agent go and the steel door slide closed. It took so long to raise an agent and you never knew if they'd live long enough to see if you did it right. He turned back to his other tasks.

 

Napoleon looked at the vat of hot wax. It might well scald him, but he knew the real problem would be suffocation. They'd chained him to a candle-dipping frame and it was heading down and so was he.

He lifted his roped together hands and squeezed his next to the bottom jacket button in a quick Morse message. Now, to escape. It was made easier that they'd bent his knees over the bar instead of hanging him by the ankles.

He bent up at the waist and grabbed the bar in his hands, then pulled his legs over, snagging the weight they'd considered a cute touch. He tested it as if it were a grapple. Napoleon looked at the approaching wax.

He let go of the bar as he straightened and arched his back. His hands dragged over the surface before he reached and caught the edge of the vat. He worked down the side of the vat as the angle of the chain changed, reached for and grabbed the control box. Stopped the rack, then settled in to hang from the control box's cable with his shoes against the vat.

On the plane, he had a chance to think. The mission hadn't been bad as they went. If he died, what happened to Illya? He'd never mattered, not like that, to anyone. Not since his parents died, and that still wasn't the same. In college, after Korea, he'd figured out he'd changed, that he'd developed a taste for danger. It could have turned out badly, an addiction like that around so many bored, privileged people. Instead, it was channeled into U.N.C.L.E. So many missions, so many ways to die in a good cause.

Now. He couldn't protect Illya dead. Couldn't love him from the grave. Saying he got one, that was never a given considering the ways an agent could meet the Reaper.

It was a long flight.

=========================

"What's this?" Mr. Waverly held the envelope and looked up at Mr. Solo, who'd insisted he'd rather stand.

"It's my resignation."

"Sit down." He hrurmphed as the younger man followed orders. "While you were gone, I had an interesting conversation with Mr. Kuryakin." He noticed Mr. Solo straighten in his chair. "Would this have anything to do with that?"

"I realized that I've responsibilities other than U.N.C.L.E." He'd typed the letter as soon as he'd gotten in, having come straight from the airport.

"And you've not spoken with Mr. Kuryakin since you left?"

"Sir?"

"I'm going to tear up this envelope, and burn it. I don't accept your resignation."

"Sir!" Napoleon stood. "I must insist."

Mr. Waverly stared at his agent.

"I've got Illya to think about now."

"You're sleeping with him."

"Yes." Napoleon sat down.

Mr. Waverly turned to his humidor, and went through the ritual of the pipe. He started to light it, then paused. "I'm not accepting your resignation, because I'm moving you to Section One."

"Sir?"

Mr. Waverly set down the match and lowered his hand holding the pipe. "We have too much power. Over agents and within the world. We do because evil knows no limit. It is paramount that Section One personnel know when not to use that power.

"You could have made sure Illya wouldn't answer my questions. For that matter you could have made sure he'd resist your attentions. That would have been a horrible mess." He shook his head, it would have been Shakespearean tragedy. "No, this has taught you what I'd always despaired of you learning, restraint. Not that I'd have wished for this particular tutor, but it's what we do with what we get that matters. That's the other thing Section One needs, idealism wedded to pragmatism.

We've covered everything in here?" He touched the envelope. Mr. Solo nodded. "Gather up Mr. Kuryakin and take him home then." He picked up a large ashtray.

"Yes, Sir." Napoleon stood, and left.

Mr. Waverly put his unlit pipe between his teeth, and reached for the letter opener. He slit the envelope, pulled out the contents and set them to one side. He tore the envelope into a small pile within the ashtray, struck a match, lit his pipe and placed the burning match in the tender. He watched it reduce to ash, then set it aside before picking up the letter.

 

The End


End file.
